So with a hopeless mien Sander left the room, and my nurse came towards the bed. "That," she said, softly, "is a very stupid man." "He is not generally considered so, my sister." She paid as little heed to my words as a nurse to the prattle of a child. "You have moved," she said, "and this bandage is ruffled. You must try to lie quieter, for you have a nasty wound in your shoulder. I know, for I have been through the war. How came you by such a hurt now that peace has been declared?" "The other man came by a worse one, for he is dead." "Then the good God forgive you. But you must keep quiet. See--I will read to you." And out came the book again in its devotional black cover. She read for a long while, but I paid no heed to her voice, nor fell under its sleepy spell. Presently she closed the pages with a pious look of reproach. "You are not attending," she said. "No." "Why not?" "Because I was wondering what cause you had to fall out with my agent, Mr. Sander, who is not so stupid as you think." "He is one of those," she answered primly, "who do not know how to behave in a sick room. He foolishly wanted to talk to you of affairs--when you are not well enough. Affairs--to a sick man!" "Who should be thinking of the affairs of another world, my sister." "Those always should come first," she answered, with downcast eyes. "And of what did Mr. Sander want to speak?" I asked. She looked up with a gleam of interest. Beneath the demure bib of her professional apron there beat still a woman's heart. Sister Renee wanted to tell me the news herself. "Oh," she answered, "it is nothing that will interest you. You are not even an Italian--only an Englishman." "That is all, my sister." "But all Genoa is on the housetops about it." "Ah!" "Yes. Never has there been so great a catastrophe; but you have no friends here, so it will not affect you." "Therefore, I may be the more safely told. I am not affected by great catastrophes from a humane point of view." "Well," she said, busying herself about the room with quick and noiseless movements, "but it is always terrible to hear of such a thing when one reflects that we are all so unprepared." "For what, my sister?" "For death," she answered, with a look of awe in the most innocent eyes in the world. "But who is dead?" "Three hundred people," she answered. "The passengers and crew of the _Principe Amadeo_--a large steamer that sailed last night from Genoa, with emigrants for South America." "And all are drowned?" I asked, after a pause, thankful that my face was in the shadow of the curtain. "All, except two of the crew. The steamer had only left the harbour an hour before, and all the passengers were at dinner. There came, I think, a fog, and in the darkness a collision occurred. The _Principe Amadeo_ went down in five minutes."